Rhapsody on a Windy Night
Rhapsody on a Windy Night
A Rhapsody on a Windy Night
Twilight likes numbers and patterns. One, two, three, four. One, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen... Hoofsteps in a quiet library, echoing.
Twilight is thorough; she is always thorough. She is so thorough, so quick, that everything falls to pieces before her sight. She is a scholar, and scholars walk in libraries. It is natural.
It is normal. Expected. Good. Solitary. Solitary like letters. It has been two months since she wrote a letter. The princess is in the west. It's funny. Rainbow mentioned something about a storm out of the Everfree, though it's been a quiet night. The storm out of the west.
The path she takes by herself is carefully plotted and ritualistic. It begins at her bed, a queen size. It continues, past an abandoned basket where once slept a babe. It progresses down the stairs in due course. It meanders at the foot of them. It then goes thrice about in concentric circles, gazing at books, and then it stops, wound up like an old clock.
Twilight stands beside the center table on the library floor. She is looking down at where the moon outlines a encircled cross: the window panes. Curious, she puts a hoof into the circle, and then takes it out. It passes the time.
The circuit must be completed, and unwound. She straightens, turns, and retraces her careful steps, keeping exact distances between each hoofstep. It is interesting.
But she stops at the stairs. She looks back at the door, thinking, and imagines the streets of Ponyville. She supposes they are pretty. Beautiful. She imagines the moon hanging in the sky like a fruit ripe for the coming harvest, and streets bathed in the argent glow.
She ascends to her own room, where there are also books. The night passes; she will smile tomorrow. Twilight collapses into bed.
It is queen size. For two.
***
Fluttershy fears the oncoming storm like the vagrant fears the malcontent's push into the canal in the New Moon.
She considers grabbing a raincoat as she hurries out the door. It will rain. She should be finished before that, though. Besides, she needs to fly and being wet does not matter. The storm is coming. It is important.
Fluttershy is through the door and out into the storm's path.
She is afraid of lightning. She is afraid of noise. Bur the storm coming (with both) is coming to where her animals live.
The oncoming storm rumbles far away, over the Everfree and she wonders briefly as she crosses the little stone bridge across her creek whether or not Rainbow is out there. Rainbow, proud against the night sky, battling back the clouds.
She is afraid of Rainbow's storm work. She is afraid of falling. When she trips and slides on the moist grass, she feels weightless and it reminds her of falling. She thinks. Thinking is bad, so she stops.
Fluttershy takes refuge in lists. It is part of her job to know what to do. It is, of course, not a written list that she follows. Her marching orders she keeps in her mind.
The chickens are gathered up. She closes up their house against the rain. She looks it over and fears. Fluttershy calculates, and decides. They will be safe. She continues on.
Cages are moved, many of them brought inside. Around her, the wind picks up and groans. Her hooves shake.
She is still a Pegasus. She can feel the storm in her lightweight bones and in her wings like a dull ache. Her blood flows fast and she feels it in her hooves like rapids. Her pupils dilate, her teeth chatter.
Up, up, up ride the lightning!
Fluttershy hates the sky. No, no she doesn't. That is too strong. She loves to fly. Sometimes. Usually. But then, as is inevitable, a storm comes and Fluttershy feels what Rainbow Dash feels and the ground seems not enough. And she grinds her teeth and doesn’t say anything because to hear her own voice is too much and she folds her wings. And they tremble.
Instead of dreaming about pegasi magic and the consummation of it, she continues her rounds.
She is glad the storm will pass, as she opens her door at last and lets animals inside. It's only for a night. Those are like storms. They're short.
***
The wind howls outside, and Rarity wonders if spite is what she is feeling. She knows of course, that it isn't. It is a bottle of Canterlonian '78 (damn good year! Fancypants had asserted amicably, grinning. His wife, not having any clue, also smiled.) and it was momentum. No, though it pleases her to think of battling the storm. As if creation, inspiration art, whatever it was could be torn from something else.
As she compares sketches, she tsks. No. No, that isn't right. It's not understated. It's not simplistic or laconic as that idiot misspoke in Canterlot at the Royal Exhibition--no! It is, in fact, boring. Sinfully boring.
Laconic. She scowls and takes up her pencil. It had taken much of her charity and feminine charm to not correct him.
My, but she felt unforgiving tonight. Rarity sighs. In his defense, he had been making a decent point and he'd been a nice sort. There. Charity. Generosity.
It makes her feel better. She forgets about him and instead considers the dress which is being born.
Perhaps. Perhaps.
It needs to come out here. To tuck in there. She resists the urge to adorn it with jewels and fails miserably.
Rarity is sitting at her work table in the dark, with only the lamplighter to guide her. Sweetie Belle is at her parent's. Rainbow is out in... Well.
Yes, the dress already seemed a bit better. But was it too... Direct? Too forward?
She had read quite a lot in school. She remembers: a house or structure must work with it's surroundings, contribute, make sense. So it was with dresses. Did it fit? Did it contend or did it build?
She curses and scowls at it. Too flashy. It sings "Behold!" where it should whisper. Uneven yokes. One must match the other. Conjoined... Dresses.
Rarity sighs and places her glasses down on the desk. She lays her head against the cool surface.
She supposes she has a long time to work. It isn't urgent. There is plenty of time, all the time in the world without end, maybe forever.
She was indeed feeling uncharitable tonight.
She raises her head to stare at the sketch, blinking away sleep. She shivers, cold. The warm bed calls from upstairs, but it is far too large. She is a city and it fits a nation. There is an indention on one side and it is very important.
What had she said?
—"Like, Rares, you've woken up with bad bedmane before. I've seen it." And she sniggers. Rarity huffs at her in disdain.
"Not for long, you didn't! I shan't be caught with anything but the finest coiffure, Rainbow Dash."
"Oh, it takes a bit of doing and you gotta be quick, but sometimes I'll catch sight of it. I am the fastest pony in Equestria, after all."
Being a Lady means being able to converse and travel with her mind in the lowest gutter and remaining untouched. She lets the ideal chance go.
"But yes. Continue."
"Storms are kinda like that. You gotta tame them. Force 'em into place. Feel the pulse of the lightning. No," she grins. "Ride the lightning. Ha, something like that. I'm glad we have magic in our wings for it."—
Rarity thinks about smoothing and kicking and setting in place and about the lightning outside that crashes and Rainbow. Riding the Lightning. Whatever the hell that meant.
***
His wife is asleep in the bed with dark blue sheets. Poets Corner, who owns the happy little bookstore on the, well, corner sips at his hot tea and smiles. It is an extraordinary event, that he has managed to stay up later than Star Singer. She retires later, and rises later, coffee in hoof to greet the noon as if it were morning, hissing at the sun. It is part of the game they play.
Poets sighs, and frowns at the strange tired taste of his own breathing. How his lungs seem to signal that the night is not for thinking and sighing, but for rest and bed.
Outside, the storm rages like some dying god against the good night. The thunder claps, the lightning flashes through the windows as he sits at the little counter where his wife makes the best of caffeinated treats. He can see her now, almost, humming her songs, her wings fluttering, her eyes bright. His silly pegasus, his happy pegasus.
He would love to see her in this kind of weather. It was... interesting. Poets likes to think he is still a scholar, and he has observed pegasi in stormy weather.
He wishes she were awake. She loves storms.
He takes another sip.
But it is alright, he supposes. That’s the thing about storms: there are always more. It’s not like they can be used up, he decides. They pass and come back, and one day when she’s feeling a bit better, his Star would ride the lightning again.
He pauses, a half-grin on his face. Ride the lightning. Huh. Had he heard that somewhere? Music... but who? It comes to him, and he chuckles. It is the last thing he expects to associate with watching his wife fly, but he supposes the description is still pretty. He tucks the idea away, and it goes down onto a mental notepad he keeps running. It’s what he does. Poets writes, a bit of everything. Adventure. Romance. Nameless terrors and...
He coughs. Right, and Ancient Cities. That dream again.
It was why he was awake, that dream. Of a white city—marble, maybe? That worked, right? He had no idea. But it was a white city, abandoned, full of Nameless things that lurked in the streets who had done... well, unspeakable things. Nameless things doing unspeakable acts. Wow. That was beyond clever right there. He shakes his head. Dreams!
He calls it Jannah. He thinks that it might just be important.
It was odd, though. He hadn’t told Star much about it yet. One didn’t tell one’s specialest of someponies that the beautiful local fashionista was the heroine one’s epic dreams of romance. Not even the fact that it was always her fillyfriend being rescued... well, actually. That might make it better. Still strange, though.
He took another sip, and smiled.
But that was all for later. The storm was now. He feels very in the middle of things, in the core of the raging rain and electricity, as if his little bookstore was the fulcrum of some silly foal’s teeter-totter.
It is nice. There is something calming about rain, even rain like this. It’s so large, he thinks, and so powerful and so beyond him that there is nothing he can so. And he is perfectly alright with that. With the world being that way.
He is almost done with his tea.
Poets leaves the counter behind to go find his record player. Some Good Winter would be excellent for his present mood.
The storm continues to pass.
***
The sheets are twisted. Caramel can feel ever little bump and knot in them underneath and he does not care. They are unimportant. Trivial before something far, far greater. It is very important, and Caramel shakes. He doesn’t want to, but he does. His long, curly mane is in his face, splayed out on his pillow, everywhere. It really is getting too long, he thinks.
In the dark, Caramel can see nothing but shadow and swirling black. He thinks that he can make out the otherwise familiar ceiling of his apartment on the edge of Ponyville, but everything seems different. If someone were to ask him now where he was, he wouldn’t know. He would have no words at all. He certainly has few now.
There is flash of lightning outside the window, and it brightens the whole room. He sees the ceiling above him, with its fan and its funny patterns that he imagines are animals and shapes. He would see more, but his head is turned straight up, and his eyes dare not look anywhere else but there. He takes a deep breath, then another. Gently, gingerly even, he rubs a hoof along his own chest, smoothing down his coat. He closes his eyes, though it makes no difference in the dark that has come back to him, and he enjoys the soft touch. It does not soothe, but it is nice.
He had been unhappy with the storm. Caramel hates thunder, and shies away from lightning. Rain he has always loved since he was a colt running amok in Ponyville. Rain is, paradoxically, one of his favorite things. It has never occurred to him until just now that it is perhaps on a very short list of his favorite things ever because in this moment it is exactly what he wants. The rain helps him to breath, to think, to be okay.
He is afraid. Or at least he thinks he is afraid. It is hard to be certain. Perhaps it is something different from fear, for he is also very happy. His chest feels hot. His hooves feel wet, as if he is sweating. Biting his lip, he prays that he isn’t, that he seems normal.
The bed creaks, and underneath him the mattress shifts. He lets out a startled gust of air, and he feels his chest seize up. It is hard to breath.
“Hey,” mumbles a rough voice. A low voice. One he knows very well. His heart beats like a madpony’s drum.
“H-hey,” he manages.
The other is silent. He feels the bed move, and the touch of a hoof on his shoulder. He allows himself to look to the right.
At first, he can see only shadows. Specifically, one rather large one.
“Hold on just a second,” the low voice says quietly, and Caramel hears him fumbling with something. For his part, Caramel tries to breath normally. He wants to run. He wants to find the largest rock ever and hide under it until he dies of starvation and they forget to bury him.
The fumbling is successful, and Caramel’s bedside lamp lights up to illuminate Macintosh’s smiling face. It is a soft smile, not large, but enough. It is exactly enough. Caramel can’t help but smile back.
“Ya look lovely, ya know.”
He smiles, and his eyes dart down towards nothing in particular. “Thanks,” he mumbles.
“I mean it.”
Caramel looks back. “I know you do.”
Macintosh sighs, and reachs for his face. He strokes Caramel’s cheek and lifts his chin softly. “An’ your sure? You’re alright, then?”
Caramel nods, and it is a jerky, awkward movement. “I guess so, yeah.”
Macintosh sighs and leans into to kiss him. Caramel’s heart hammers in his chest as he returns the kiss, breathing in Macintosh’s scent. It is a heady thing, to be here. He rises with his coltfriend as Macintosh tries to pull away to speak, feeling warm and happy. Feeling small in a good way.
Their lips break apart, and Big Mac chuckles. “You seem so.”
Caramel can almost feel his face flushing, and he looks down. “Yeah... I guess I am a little... overeager. I’ve just... well.”
“I know.”
“But I want to. I... I want it to be you.”
Macintosh says nothing at first. He only smiles and kisses Caramel again, a hoof running through the long mane. Caramel loses track of the time, caught up in the power of it. It reminds him of a storm, but not the one that was passing. The one that was here, just rain, rain falling and falling hard on the window pane without thunder to be its preamble, drowning the world in life, bringing the cool blessing of reprieve from the sun.
“It really is nice an’ all,” Macintosh said, as they lay side by side on his bed.
“Hm?”
“Your mane. It’s nice. I’m glad ya decided to go on an’ grow it out.”
“Oh! Thank you,” he said, breatheless. It is easier now. It got easier. It passes.
Macintosh leans in, and nibbles on his ear. Caramel shivers, biting his lip. Those teeth move down to his neck and shoulder and he begins to shake. The ease is gone, and he is in an undiscovered country. He doesn’t know the language. He tries to open his mouth to say... he has no idea what he would possibly say, and all that comes out is a soft, almost feminine groan and he clamps his mouth shut, horrified.
“Mm,” Macintosh tries to speak, and takes a pause from his ministrations. “Finally, was wonderin’ how long you’d keep it in.”
Caramel groans, this time in disgust at himself.
“Nah, ‘s alright, ya know.”
As if to prove a point, Macintosh leans in and continues, nibbles becoming soft bites. Caramel is ashamed, because it is more of the same. He barely recognizes his own voice, and somehow it does things to his mind. Everything becomes confused, strange, almost like being buzzed but not quite, and he feels warm and Macintosh is over him, kissing his chest, and Caramel accepts it.
The storm continues to pass by.
***
Applejack places her head against the door, listening.
Outside, the storm has begun to leave, and behind it is only the whistling wind. It shakes the tree, and her ear flicks on reflex at the sound of rustling leaves.
Inside, she hears nothing but a tiny snore. That’ll be Applebloom, she thinks to herself and suppresses a chuckle. It’s a common family problem, nothing special. Just a little reminder that she’s one of theirs. It makes Applejack happy in a way she can’t explain.
If nothing else, she’s glad that the Crusaders haven’t decided to run off yet. Getting them to bed in the first place had been nigh well impossible. She straightens up, and shakes her head. If it wasn’t for the storm, they would no doubt be halfway into the Everfree by now, or doing whatever it was that they were planning. She lost track of them with almost ludicrous ease, and it got tiring.
She had to admit though that they were endearing little terrors. So eager. Even in the middle of disaster the lights in their eyes made it hard to really blame them. They were young. They could jump and run and fall over and break all sorts of bones and fences and bounce right back up with a big grin, baby tooth missing and all, ready for more. And she loves it.
She rubs the back of her neck, feeling the sore muscles there.
Time for bed.
As she walks down the hall, Applejack pauses at an open door. She turns her head, and gazes inside.
It’s Big Macintosh’s room. Her brother’s room. It occurs to her that she hasn’t stepped hoof inside in perhaps... she has no idea. Years. Her brother is a private stallion. Not exactly secretive, but his openness is a rare and strange thing. He seldom speaks, and she has learned to read what he means by how he looks at her.
Applejack enters the room without thinking about it. She turns on the lights.
She isn’t sure what she expected. It’s orderly, clean. Tidy. There’s a small bookshelf in the corner, and a book lying on his bedside table. A slim volume lies on his bed.
“Knew ya read,” she whispers, and walks over to his bed. It’s red. Which... makes sense, she supposes. Big Red Macintosh, can see him for miles out there. Idly, she picks up the small book and opens to a random page.
“Caramel tries hard. Ha, maybe too hard! But he’s a sweet stallion, with a good heart... and it helps that he looks fine as can be. He’s growing his hair out, he said so today while we were at lunch. I’m happy that Applejack treated him alright. I guess she’s forgiven me for chasing off that one colt when we we—”
She shuts the book, her face crimson, and places it back where she found it. For his information, she hadn’t needed his help anyhow. Sticking his big nose in everywhere.
“I say, readin’ his diary,” she said, and sat on his bed. “Sorry, Mac. Mighty sorry.”
Applejack’s eyes wander over her brother’s bookshelf.
She recognizes only about a quarter of the names. She recognizes his copy of the Books—there is Works and the Days, there is Cato, there is Rowan Oak, as all good earth ponies had and knew by heart—but most of the titles eluded her utterly. She recognizes a few tattered volumes: Daring Do and the Phoenix Pool, There and Back Again, It’s a Dangerous Business... but she does not recognize this one. She pulls it out.
“Crime an’ Punishment,” she reads aloud, and wonders.
Applejack replaces the book after awhile, and sighs.
She had never asked him about his books. She knew he read some, and she had suspected he read all sorts of things, but she had simply never asked. She never thought to.
She wonders.
She stands up and trots over to the center of the room, to turn and gaze at the bed that her brother has vacated. She can imagine him there, lying down, chewing on a pencil—she has no idea why, the image pops into her head fully formed. She assumes that he takes notes. It just seems like something he would do, scribble in the margins.
She leaves, turning the lights off. She finds her own bed, in her own dark room, orange sheets with happy, bright red apples, and seeks the warm spot beneath the covers.
Her head rests against the cold pillow.
Applejack closes her eyes.
She can’t remember a time when Big Mac wasn’t snoring down the hall. Ever. He has always been there, as if on the first day of creation, Big Mac was there to snore. The Song begins to begin the world like in the Books and then underneath it all is the droning of Big Mac’s snoring on into the night, like a bed beneath your or...
She was being stupid.
She likes Caramel. He’s nice. He’s kind. Aw, he’s a bit effeminate and she’d never date him in a million years, but he’s a decent sort. Polite. Paid attention to Apple Bloom—that scored points with her. And he smiled.
Big Macintosh is happy. He’s got a lot. He’s sharing a bed with somepony he loves, warm and safe and listening to the rain. Or... whatever it was. That stallions did. She sticks her tongue out in mild disgust, but it wasn’t heartfelt. Mostly she feels silly and stupid. Like a filly again, only not in a way she liked.
Applejack sighs and rolls over onto her other side. She stares out the window.
The storm had passed. Lots of things were.
***
A pony walks the wet and still muddy streets of Ponyville.
Caught in the rain, Scrivener had took refuge under a little awning in front of the window at Sugarcube Corner. Friendly place, lovely ponies. It seemed fitting that it should shield him from the rain.
He loves the rain. Adores it. Now that it is gone, he misses it. He loves the sound, the way the rain extuingishes itself on the dirt roads and how it churns the dust into mud with its force. How it comes and remakes. How it changes.
He wishes he could enjoy it inside, but so it goes.
Tracking his way through the mud, Scrivener listens to the wind dying. The storm is long gone, and the night seems emptier for it. As if the danger has passed, though there was no danger. As if the music has passed, though the beautiful rain is no music. He does not know. It is of no consequence. Anyways, it’s not surprising. Nothing is constant, he reasons.
Still.
The long lane that he lives on is silent. The lights are all out. Ponies sleep, waiting for day to come and night to say it’s last goodbye. The moon shines down and the water in puddles catches it and shines back. He day(night?)dreams that it is like the water is smiling back, like it has some secret, as if it has some tale to tell, of ponies. Ponies in the night. He wonders.
He groans at the mud as he finally arrives at the steps of his house. He glances up, smiling, to see that a light is on. When he looks back down, his eyes catch the nameplate. The first initial is worn off, but his second name still is proudly visible: Scrivener.
They waited, he thinks, and his smile becomes a large grin. Scrivener wipes a wet and matted blue strand of mane from his eyes and takes a deep breath. He feels warmer already, in the cold night bereft of a storm. He digs the keys out of his saddlebag and opens his door.
It’s time for bed, before the sun caught him out.
Author's Note
Dedicated to Nothing is Constant, and to T.S. Eliot.
You should read the original poem.
It is darker. And it is one of my favorites.
This is... a weird story for me. Can'tcha feel it? It's weird. I experiemented a lot. Or something. I don't know
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